


An Occurrence Unforeseeable

by Romantika



Category: Downton Abbey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:08:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27408589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romantika/pseuds/Romantika
Summary: ... after another story that I could not find, but now (20th January 2021) I have: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9792665/1/The-Unknown-Self.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	An Occurrence Unforeseeable

Hallowe'en 2023: another filthy night in Manchester, a city where it always seems to rain.

Rob stormed out of the TV studios in a very bad mood: the filming schedule had gone to hell, and he'd been hanging around all day to do bugger all.

_Christ Almighty, the things I do to earn a living ... I need a drink, and quickly ..._

He barged on down the road through the drizzle, and didn't see the man standing in the middle of the pavement till he nearly bumped into him.

"Oh, sorry!"

"Wha' ... 'ts all right ... " came the quiet reply.

_I know that voice ..._

He turned back, and looked at the man, who was still standing motionless. He was wearing a full-length charcoal grey overcoat and a black fedora hat, which hid his face. Rob could just see a flash of pale skin and a curl of cigarette smoke.

"Don't I know you from somewhere?" he asked.

"I doubt it."

The man turned to face Rob, whose breath stopped in his chest. It was him, that younger version of himself, clean-shaven, less lined in the face, but the eyes were just the same, grey as mist.

"But you can't be here ... you've never been, not anywhere, only in a script, on the telly, you're a ... "

"Phantom? Or would you prefer figment? Just remember what day it is ... "

"Well, I don't ... I can't ... oh, whatever ... can we talk somewhere dryer and warmer? I'm getting soaked standing here nattering. I haven't got a brolly or a coat."

"Born in these parts, you should know better, but, any road, why not?"

"The Old Wellington's not far away."

"I know, I was looking for it." 

"They moved the whole building after the bombing ... of course you wouldn't know about that ... " He took Thomas by the elbow, "Come on, it's this way."

*****

Ten minutes later, Rob had furnished both of them with a pint of beer, and they were tucked away in a corner of the oldest pub in the city. Thomas was very quiet, observing everything, from people chatting into little oblong things held to their ears, women wearing trousers, and, worst of all, the fact that he wasn't allowed to smoke inside. The fingers of his right hand twitched rather nervously in lieu.

"How did you get here then?"

"I haven't the least idea. One moment, I'm on my way to Piccadilly station after sorting out some stuff at the solicitors after my father's death, the next, you nearly knocked me over."

"I could have sworn there was no-one in my path ... till there you were."

"Why were you in such a hurry?"

"I'd sat in the studios for eight hours, waiting to go on set, and got nothing filmed at all - bloody wasted day!"

"Who are you now?"

"Schoolteacher."

"When?"

"Present-day."

"Is it popular?"

"Seems to be - we're on our seventh series."

"Well, you might come across him one day as well. It usually happens when you've moved on to something else."

"Usually! Does this happen a lot then?"

"No, it depends on the character, the strength of the following, the ... believers, and the ones who carry on the writing, the imagining. I'm probably only here because someone had the idea that I might be, on this day 'n' all: that makes it easier ... to move between."

"Oh ..." Rob thought for a moment trying to take it all in, "So, where have you come from ... no, sorry, when have you come from?"

"October 1923."

"I remember that, it was a harrowing time, but I don't recall anything about the death of my .. er, your father."

"It didn't happen on screen, but it did happen."

"How do you know?"

"Well, if someone writes about it, it's a path that can be followed - there are so many ... and there's another."

Thomas gestured towards an older man sitting at the next table, typing, unbeknown to him, into a laptop.

"I can feel it: he's writing about me, and about you as well -that doesn't happen very often."

"Do you know exactly what he's writing?"

"It'll be precisely what happened this evening, because that's also one of a million billion possible presents, coming from fewer pasts, but moving to even more futures. He'll probably stop in a minute, and that'll be that." 

Thomas looked at Rob intently, "You said you remembered my story."

"Well, my version of it, yes."

"It is difficult for me, my now. Does it get better?"

"First it gets worse, a lot worse, but then, yes, things most certainly improve."

"Am I always alone?"

"No."

"Is he a good man?"

"I thought so."

"That makes it all worth while." Thomas finished his beer, and stood up. "I think I'd better be going. I wouldn't want to evaporate in front of you, you see, when he's finished clicking away on that funny little machine."

Rob shook Thomas' hand. "Good-bye," he said.

"No, farewell rather ... you never know. Thanks for the pint, it's good to know there's still decent stuff to drink around here."

He smiled, and turned away. Rob watched him go through the pub doors, and he was lost to view in the rainy darkness.

Save.

Post.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very odd bit of writing, I know. I just wanted to put it down, and see what happened to it ... 
> 
> The Old Wellington Pub was indeed moved 300 yards from its original site during city centre redevelopment in Manchester after the Arndale Centre was bombed by the IRA in 1996.


End file.
